


Lingerie in the laundry

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lingerie, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 09:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Great Episode challenge. Waverly Ring Affair. Prompt 2: George DennellGeorge is very suspicious of what Illya has acquired and disbelieves him on principle. But when he finds Illya in trouble, he has to do something... anything, to save his life... if he's allowed to.





	Lingerie in the laundry

Just as he was hopeful of making a conquest of the new girl in Section Four, Napoleon was given a solo assignment. He told a slightly irritated Illya he’d take his chance when he got back. Illya didn’t think Napoleon was her type – she looked shy and retiring and he had secret hopes in that direction himself.

She was awfully pretty. He hadn’t yet managed to do more than smile at her in the canteen but the smile she had returned had been merely polite. George, he noticed, was being proprietorial; he had monopolised her all through lunch. No doubt boring her to death with the finicking detail of some pedestrian computer program he was working on. Illya’s programming would probably have knocked spots off it.

And now at home, Illya was restless. With Napoleon away, he hadn’t been assigned a mission for some days and was bored. He’d completed an experiment in the Lab; he’d read all his journals; he’d even been reduced to tidying his apartment, as a result of which, all the clothes he had failed to do anything about after that last mission were now in a heap in front of him. Some needed washing to get rid of the smell of smoke and the remainder was underwear. Unceasingly grateful for the service Del Floria’s provided in the way of clean shirts and suits, he nevertheless had to deal with the rest himself.

Bundling everything into a bath towel, Illya carried it all down to the basement laundromat. Several machines, both washers and dryers, were running but no-one else had remained to watch so he was free to rediscover the secrets of the procedures without embarrassing observation.

He sat mesmerised, watching the clothes slapping back and forth in the soapsuds. The sudden, final fast spin roused him from stupor and prepared him for the next stage. The languid movement of the garments in the dryer was less mesmerising – he was curious about how they fell each time and in particular how a small white item kept appearing. His whites were in in a different machine so he wondered what it was. Not a handkerchief, anyway – none of his handkerchiefs was anything like as white as that.

The machine ended its run and everything landed in a heap at the bottom of the drum. He pulled it all out into one of the baskets, still hot from the drying process and smelling a lot better than when he’d started. He pulled at the bit of white in the mass of towels, turtle-necks and socks and was startled to discover a small, attractively embroidered item that he did not own and certainly couldn’t wear. Slim he might be, but not compact in that area.

Back in his apartment, he left everything hung up on pieces of furniture to air including the delicate piece of lingerie, which he left on the sofa. It must belong to one of the female occupants of an apartment in the block, among whom were one or two who worked for UNCLE, but he could hardly go round knocking on doors waving it. They might take him for some kind of pervert and on the whole he preferred the label Ice Prince. He’d have to ask Napoleon’s advice… or maybe not.

<><><> 

George Dennell was feeling on top of the world. He walked briskly into the canteen for morning coffee and was going to choose a pastry when he remembered why he was feeling so lively and put the plate back. Waistline!  He looked around for a table and saw Illya sitting alone and thought he’d take pity on him – after all he’d been fairly friendly over that Waverly ring business.

“Hi. Still partnerless, Illya?” he said, “mind if I join you?”

Illya, unconcerned about his waistline, had a mouth full of pastry so he gestured to the vacant seat and George sat down. Swallowing, Illya took a sip of coffee and replied, “Napoleon’s not back yet.”

“When’s he due?”

“At the weekend, I hope. How’s trade in Section Four?”

“Oh, you know, busy busy. We’re trying to decode a new dataset that came in yesterday. The new girl, Lizzie, is doing her best under my guidance… Actually,” he confessed, “I think she’s pretty good without my guidance, but … anyway,” he put his cup down and smiled broadly. “She’s so sweet and innocent, you know – not like that … that Carla.” He looked grim for a moment, then more cheerfully announced, “I’m going to ask her to go to a show with me tonight.”

“Oh,” said Illya.

“Thought I’d get in first while that Lothario of yours is away. No girl is safe with Napoleon around.”

“No,” said Illya.

“Well, I’d better get on. See you later.” He leapt up and rushed away.

“Yes,” said Illya, to his now-distant back.

<><><> 

“Oh, Mr Dennell, I’m so sorry. I’m going out tonight,” said Lizzie.

Temporarily cast down, George said, “Oh, gee, Lizzie.” Then he brightened. “How about tomorrow? The show’s still on. And please call me George.”

“All right, George. I’ll look forward to it,” she said, and watched him walk away with a little bounce in his step, his optimism restored.

<><><> 

Saturday evening. Illya set out the chessmen and a bottle of vodka. The boxes of his takeout lay on the floor, empty but still a little redolent of their contents. It was getting late, but he wasn’t tired. He started with the Italian Opening, the oldest opening gambit – giuoco piano – the quiet game, for a quiet night in. It wasn’t dull play as some thought; there was always something new to gain from it; you could lull a partner into a false sense of security and then attack.

He was lost in consideration of the possible moves when someone came to the door – a rare occurrence. Even rarer was his visitor.

“George?”

“Hi, Illya … can I come in for a minute?

“Of course.” Illya waved an arm and George preceded him into the sitting room and looked around curiously. Very few people ever penetrated this sanctum but Illya didn’t _appear_ to mind the intrusion.

“Want a drink? I can offer vodka or Scotch.”

“D’you have any Bourbon?”

“Too sweet for Napoleon – he’s the one who drinks whisky. But he brought the last bottle of Scotch and it’s a single malt, twelve years old. You might like it. Sit down, I’ll bring it. Coffee, too?”

Slightly astonished by this evidence of hospitality, George sat down on the sofa and looked at the chess board. He didn’t fancy his chances against Illya, but he did know a bit about it and could see the moves Illya had been trying. Then he looked around the room. It was a negative kind of space, apart from the books and the chess set – and the piles of science journals. The furniture was sparse and not particularly comfortable. Actually, it was all very like the occupant – who now came in with a tray and sat down opposite.

“So,” he said, “to what do I owe the honour?”

“Pardon me?”

“Why are you here, George?” Illya didn’t take _that_ kindly to uninvited guests though he was trying to be hospitable.

“I, er, I just brought Lizzie home,” he began.

“She lives in this block? I didn’t know.”

“She only moved in yesterday. Her apartment’s upstairs a floor or two. Anyway, I thought, as I was passing, I’d call and say hello – neighbourly, you know.”

Illya raised his eyebrows a little but said merely, “I see. George, why don’t you go wash your hands and look in the mirror.”

George crimsoned and went to do so, returning a few moments later lipstick free.

“That’s better,” said Illya. “So, you came here to recover, I assume?”

“There wasn’t anything to recover from,” said George, affecting a virtuous air.

Illya brightened. “Oh, well I’m sure you did your best, George. Perhaps she was tired.”

George looked up anxiously. “Do you think there’s someone else? She was out last night. She says she’s busy this week.”

Illya’s ill-founded optimism faded; he shrugged. George sat back and flung his arms out along the back of the sofa where his hand met a small piece of fabric. The doorbell ringing again at that moment, Illya went to answer it. George picked up the garment and, startled to see what it was, dropped it quickly and sat up again hearing Illya’s surprised exclamation.

“Napoleon!”

His partner stood sheepishly on the landing. “Come in before someone sees you,” Illya said mockingly. “Lost your key?”

“Just temporarily mislaid, partner. I thought I’d call – see if you’d missed me.”

Illya led the way into the sitting room and went to fetch a glass from the kitchen. “Vodka or Scotch?”

“Hi George, what are you doing here? Scotch, Illya, please. Anything left in those boxes?”

“No. There’s some cheese in the fridge – will that do?”

Napoleon talked to George and studied the chess problem while Illya hunted up some crackers and cheese. Then he saw the delicate item of ladies’ lingerie lying on the sofa. He reached across and took it up and was closely examining it when Illya returned.

“Who’s the lucky lady?” he enquired.

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask her name? – It’s the correct procedure, you know.”

George looked from one to the other as Illya denied all knowledge.

“Small, but perfectly formed,” Napoleon asserted.

Illya cast up his eyes. “And you, of course, know who it belongs to?”

“I’m not sure I do. This little lady isn’t someone I’ve …”

“How can you tell?”

“When you have as much experience as I do, my friend, you’ll know whose underwear you’re holding. This one’s new to me …  Yeah, well. Lucky you.”

George stood up, clearly embarrassed and offended by the turn the conversation was taking. “Thanks for the drink, Illya. I don’t think I want to hear any more. You Section Two people! I hope you haven’t been taking advantage of some innocent and helpless young woman, Illya.”

Illya accompanied him to the door protesting his own innocence, but was evidently not believed. Napoleon was laughing when he returned.

“I found it among my laundry when I emptied the machine. I didn’t see the lady to ask her,” said Illya crossly.

“Sez you,” Napoleon chuckled. “Let me think – which of them live in this block?” He sat back holding the item up to judge the size of the owner.

Illya’s expression held nothing but annoyance.

“Tomorrow, I’ll find out,” said Napoleon.

“Make sure you leave me out of it.”

“Yesss, Illya, naturally…”

<><><> 

Napoleon walked into the canteen to be greeted by smiles (female) and catcalls (male). He waved to all in a general way and collected his lunch. Seeing George with some of his staff, including the lovely Lizzie, at a nearby table, he went to join them, ignoring the claims of his own flock. Hilarious conversation followed, judging by the laughter coming from their table. Except from George, it appeared. Lizzie looked flushed and embarrassed but was smiling a little.

“There he is now,” said Napoleon and waved at Illya standing in line for lunch. No-one ever catcalled Illya, though there were a few smiles. He saw Napoleon waving and took his tray across to the Section Four table. “Is there room?” he asked diffidently.

There was a distinct chill around George who was sitting between Lizzie and Napoleon, but warmth from the rest, so he sat down as far as possible from George.

“We now know the owner of the … item of female clothing currently in your possession,” said Napoleon. “You’ll have to return it, you know. Look, she’s blushing.”

Illya glared at him. “It is, I repeat, nothing to do with me. I found it among my laundry.”

“Well, you can return it to Lizzie when you both get home.”

“I’ll _take_ you home, Lizzie and we’ll both collect it,” George interjected. This young woman needed the protection of someone cool and resourceful in the face of devil-may-care, rampant womanisers like these two!

“Oh, George, you don’t need to do that. I’m sure Mr Kuryakin didn’t mean to keep my underwear.”

“Call him Illya,” said Napoleon mischievously. “I mean if he’s in possession of intimate pieces of your clothing, for _whatever_ reason – I mean, what were you both doing on Friday night? – such formality seems a little redundant.”

As both parties were now red, George immediately leaped to the wrong conclusion and, retaining what dignity he could, rose and left.

“Oops,” said Napoleon with a certain understatement.

“Oh, Napoleon,” said Lizzie – she, like everyone else, had no problem calling him by his first name – “you shouldn’t tease him. He’s being very gentlemanly, that’s all.”

She looked at Illya who had his head down and was eating his lunch with concentration. “Mr Kuryakin?”

He looked up.

“This is so embarrassing. I’m sorry. Can I call on you this evening?” she asked.

Napoleon watched with interest as his partner, still a little pink, nodded.

“I might have to bring George, or he’ll be suspicious,” she added and Illya’s flush faded.

<><><> 

Having survived an afternoon of Napoleon’s insinuations and merry quips, Illya sat at home looking at the chessboard without seeing it and waited for the doorbell. Not having led the kind of teenage life that his partner had, he wasn’t as familiar with the kind of churning anticipation teenagers go through waiting for a call and wondered if he was ill.

When the bell sounded, he all but ran to the door, then paused to get his breath and opened it. It was neither Lizzie nor even George, but a large man dressed in work clothing – with a bird logo on his arm – who sprayed him in the face and ran down the stairs.

It was only minutes later when Lizzie and her protector found Illya lying in his hallway, unconscious, not breathing and cyanosed. Quicker-thinking than George, Lizzie dropped to her knees and started chest compressions. “Shall I do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?” said George, standing helplessly by.

“He may have been poisoned, George. You don’t want to breathe in whatever it was.” she said. “I’ll try to get his lungs clear first. You check his pulse.”

The blue shade around Illya’s mouth began to lessen under Lizzie’s ministrations, and then to George’s consternation, she bent over, put her lips to Illya’s and alternately breathed into his mouth and pumped his chest, until he coughed and started to breathe properly on his own.

When he opened his eyes, Lizzie sat back and smiled down at him. “Help me lift him up, George,” she said and between them they lifted and half carried him to the sofa in the sitting room. “Keep an eye on him, George, I’ll get a glass of water,” she said, making for the kitchen.

George watched Illya anxiously. “Are you OK?” he said.

“Mm. Fine,” said Illya.

“What happened?”

“D’know. Man gassed me,” he coughed.

“Why?”

Illya turned an acid blue gaze on him, which could have shrivelled him where he sat – if he’d only realised – but the verbal response was, “Thrush.”

Lizzie returned with a glass of water. “I think it’s clean,” she said. “I had to wash it first.”

“Thank you.”

“We saved your life, you know that?” said George.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, kiss of life and everything. That was Lizzie, not me. I didn’t kiss you. I felt your pulse to see if you were still alive.”

Illya turned a softer blue gaze on his guardian angel and smiled. “I wish I’d known,” was all he said.

George could see the incident taking a turn he didn’t approve of and cleared his throat. “So, Illya, do you need us to call Medical for you?”

Illya shook his head.

“OK, if you’re sure. Can we collect Lizzie’s …er…”

“My underwear,” she said firmly. “And I think you should have someone check up on you. Yes, Mr Kuryakin – you’ve been poisoned. You must have someone look at you. We’ll take you back to headquarters. Won’t we, George.”

The two men gave each other a fulminating look. Illya got to his feet and handed over the lingerie, which he’d been sitting on. “Won’t it make you late and spoil your evening?” he said.

“Oh no. We’ll be fine, won’t we, George?”

“Sure,” he agreed. “Take my arm, Illya.”

“I think I can still manage on my own, thank you.”

“Better wipe off the lipstick or they’ll get the wrong idea.”

“There’s no wrong idea to get,” Illya replied. George helped him to his feet and failed to notice the ambiguity of this response.

<><><> 

They helped him down to George’s car and took him to UNCLE headquarters. The medical staff groaned inwardly, seeing him brought in. “What is it this time?” they asked, digging out the paperwork.

Lizzie explained while George stood by in a manly way, trying to look like he’d fought off a dragon and was now waiting to rescue the princess from draconian bureaucracy.

“I hope you’ll feel better tomorrow, Mr Kuryakin,” said Lizzie as he was about to be led away.

“You can call me Illya, you know,” he said. “I think giving someone the kiss of life means we can dispense with the formalities,” and to George’s annoyance, Illya bent and brushed her cheek with his lips fleetingly. “Can I take you out to lunch tomorrow?”

“I’d like that … Illya.”

Affronted, George led her away before Lizzie could agree to any other suggestions Illya might make. “I thought we had an arrangement…” he was heard to say as their Russian colleague was taken into medical custody.

Illya was observed to be smiling.

<><><><> 


End file.
